


Wood is patient

by sherlockismysuicidenote



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: M/M, Mentions of Character Death, Post Reichenbach, Reichenbach Feels
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-11-23
Updated: 2012-11-23
Packaged: 2017-11-19 08:38:15
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 677
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/571327
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sherlockismysuicidenote/pseuds/sherlockismysuicidenote
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sebastian is used to reporting news, so he can't, and won't break that habit.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Wood is patient

Somewhere, in a quiet, barely used corner of one of London’s graveyards stood a lonely cross, crafted out of wood, with nothing but a few engraved symbols and a thin layer of moss that slowly destroyed it covering the material.

The cross saw everyone who passed its quiet corner, but nobody ever bothered to take a look at it, not a single person could be found to marvel at the symbols littering the wood. It was nameless and therefore unimportant.

Not for the man who had spent his time building the small memorial, the man who came to visit the bodiless grave beneath it once a week, more often twice, just talking to the wood, regardless of the weather or the temperature. He was used to sitting outside, after all.

“Hey, it’s me… Well, of course it’s me. There’s nobody else.”

The grass beneath the man’s legs and butt was soft, slightly damp when he sat down.

“I’m not angry at you anymore. I still want to shake you until you tell me why I have to do… this. But I’ll probably never know why you thought that was a good idea.”

A pause, he was searching for words to say, anything that seemed right.

“No, I’m not angry at you. I’m… I can’t forgive myself, you know? Always thinking I might have been able to change your mind. Probably not, but I didn’t try hard enough. Not good enough.”

Small drips of rain were mixing with quiet tears, tears nobody wanted to see but just rolled down his cheeks.

“Who am I kidding? Nobody could have changed your mind. You just wanted to win that… that game. You didn’t care for anything… anybody else. Hell, you’d be laughing at me right now, tell me to stop being so sentimental. It only gets in the way of work, you’d say.”

The familiar words were still echoing through his mind.

“But you were wrong. My work was never flawed, not once. I was the perfect employee, loyal until the very end. Never suspected a thing, did you? You weren’t the only good actor around…”

His empty hands were twiddling with the sleeve of his jacket; every time he thought about bringing something, flowers or a candle but the voice just told him to stop being stupid.

“You wouldn’t have wanted me to sit around like this, I suppose. Would’ve wanted me to run the web, which I do, and not mourn a dead man sitting at an empty grave. It’s just… I’m sorry. I’m sorry that I didn’t protect you. I’m sorry that I’m such an idiot. I’m sorry that I wasn’t good enough for you.

The words were slurred together, caught up between sobs.

“I’m missing you. It’s stupid and I’m sorry but I’m missing you. You’re missing, here.”

The nightfall brought a stinging, cold wing so he decided to end his monologue, go back into his life that didn’t play on a graveyard. That part of his existence was painfully small.

“I got to go. I l-.. I’ll talk to you soon. Goodbye.”

Standing up from the grass that was a little bit too high because nobody cared for that piece of the graveyard, watching the drops falling from the sky that was a little bit too grey, Sebastian Moran padded back to the flat, his flat, that was a whole lot too empty.

Somewhere, in a quiet, barely used corner of one of London’s graveyards stood a lonely cross, crafted out of wood, with nothing but a few engraved symbols and a thin layer of moss that slowly destroyed it covering the material.

Nobody bothered to look at its beautiful ornaments save for one man, but his gentle words were enough to convince every by passer that the owner of the cross had had a great life and a beautiful, caring friend. And even if one can argue about the first, nobody would argue about the second. Because if James Moriarty had one thing, it was a loyal friend who’d never leave his side. Never.

**Author's Note:**

> This was the first thing I ever wrote, and I have been thinking about posting it here for a while. The people on tumblr seemed to like it, so, here you are.
> 
> I write a lot of angst... But I'm currently working on changing that, and will hopefully succeed!


End file.
